


(i just want to) sleep forever

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post 5x04, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Red. That’s the first thing he registers."</p>
<p>Small drabble about Ian in a depression. I wrote it after 5x04, so really, it takes place then, but it could be viewed as any point between 4x12 and the end of 5x05. Please check the tags for your triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i just want to) sleep forever

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please check the tags for your triggers. Title taken from "Sleep Forever" by Portugal the Man - a gorgeous song you should definitely check out! Feel free to comment with constructive criticism - I'd love to hear what you guys think! Even if it's negative.

Mickey wakes up to an empty room.

“Ian?” he calls cautiously into the darkness, but there’s no reply. The sheets on the other side of the bed are rumpled, cold, as if they were evacuated a long time ago; slowly, Mickey drags himself into a upright position, propping himself up with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the heel of the other. “Ian?” he calls again, a bit louder this time, but still no one answers.

Maybe _,_ Mickey thinks, as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, maybe Ian’s better. He’s been in bed for the past week, only getting up to go to the bathroom and only when prompted by Mickey. Maybe this is a good sign. Maybe Mickey will find him in the kitchen, making eggs at three in the morning, or Ian’s running shoes gone there will be a note by the door: _be back in a few hours!_ as if Mickey knows when he left, where he’s gone, when that means he’ll be back.

But the flame of hope is a weak one. Ian usually has some sort of trigger before he goes back into happy mode, something good happening to Mickey at work or good news from Fiona about Frank or maybe just a day where Mickey lays in bed with him and holds him until he’s better. But yesterday was anything but uplifting, with Liam going under the knife and Mickey being gone all day and Svetlana stuck at home waiting for her surrogate baby to pop. There’s no way Ian, in his depressive state, could find anything good about that.

Mickey pads out into the living room in a pair of Ian’s sweatpants and nothing else. The glowing numbers on the clock read three a.m.: way to early to be up on a Wednesday. Running a hand through his hair, Mickey goes and checks the kitchen, movements still stunted and stiff with sleep, but there’s no one there. He checks for Ian’s running shoes, but they’re still by the front door, checks the front stoop but it’s empty and frosted over, and Mickey is about to start seriously freaking out when he notices the quaver of dull light coming out from beneath the bathroom door. His whole body relaxes - but then it just stiffens up again. What is Ian doing in the bathroom?

He knocks on the door carefully. “Hey, Gallagher, you alright?” No response. He waits a moment, then knocks again. “Hey, what’s going on in there? Can I come in?” There’s the sound of something thumping, like it’s been dropped to the floor, and the rustle of moving fabric, but still no reply. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Mickey opens the door without Ian’s permission and is immediately stunned into stopping. Red. That’s the first thing he registers. It’s not even a particularly big pool - not even a pool, really, just a tiny puddle forming on the fabric of Ian’s sweatpants where his left arm is laying - but it’s enough. The cut runs vertical down Ian’s arm but it’s not deep, or wide, or even that long. It’s just red.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey swears, recovering and dropping down to his knees beside Ian’s legs. Ian is looking at Mickey with the sort of empty expression that makes Mickey’s stomach ache. “Fuck, what the fuck are you doing, Ian? Jesus fucking Christ.” Immediately he reaches out to put pressure on the wound, but realizes, even as he presses his fingers down, it doesn’t need it. It’s already scabbing over.

“You hid your guns.” Ian’s voice rasps from disuse - he hasn’t spoken in a week, and honestly, Mickey hadn’t really expected him to answer his questions now.

“But why Ian, why the fuck -“ Mickey suddenly notices Ian’s right fist is clenched tight around something, and slowly he reaches out, fingers quavering more than he would like, to rest his hand on Ian’s palm. Ian doesn’t react as Mickey slowly pries his fingers open, revealing the rusty razor blade which has cut into Ian’s palm from where he was gripping it tightly. Slowly, Mickey pulls it from his grasp, tossing it back into the sink, where it falls with a clatter. Mickey presses his thumbs into the cuts in Ian’s palms, partially to stem the bloodflow but mainly because he needs an excuse to hold onto Ian. “What the fuck.”

“Seemed like the only way,” Ian says, voice still scarily distant. “I’ve got no meds other than the ones you’ve given me, no gun, can’t leave the fucking house, let alone get to the top of an apartment building, and you won’t let me have access to knives so I’ll I’ve got is the hookers old razor blades.” His tone turns sickeningly wry. “It turns out, they’re so dull that they can’t cut shit.”

Mickey’s pretty sure he’s shaking. His mouth is partially open as he stares at Ian, taking in the hopelessness on his expression, the detachment - like he doesn’t _care,_ like it doesn’t _matter,_ like this pain is nothing compared to whatever else he’s feeling. “That’s not what Imeant,” Mickey says, and his voice really is shaking, sounds weak and girly and gay, but right now, he doesn’t give a fuck. “ _Why,_ Ian.”

Ian stares at him for a long moment, and then his expression droops. “Because you won’t _leave_ me,” he says, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence, finally betraying his false bravado. “I’ve _told_ you, I’ve told you a dozen times, you need to _leave_ me, but you just won’t do it.”

“Jesus, no, of course not. I’m never going to fucking leave you, Christ, Ian -“

“That’s the problem!” There are tears welling in Ian’s eyes now, and his expression is so heartbroken it makes Mickey feel as though his own chest is splintering into a thousand pieces, a million. “I don’t want you -“” Ian stops and swallows and for a terrifying second Mickey thinks that’s the end of that sentence, before Ian continues, “I don’t want you to be stuck here, taking care of me, for the rest of your fucking life! Having to deal with the mood swings and me being great one day and then horrible the next - I won’t be able to hold down a job, I won’t be able to help you with anything, I won’t be able to do shit but lie in bed and hate myself, and I don’t want to put you through that!”

“Ian,” Mickey says, shifting forward onto his toes, moving closer to Ian, his right hand moving from where it’s rested on Ian’s thigh up his side, to his waist, “Ian, stop it. This isn’t permanent. We can help you, okay, find something that works for you -“

“No, you can’t! I saw this happen already, I saw Monica and Frank and it was horrible! She just kept - recycling old habits, rinse and repeat, it was - and - and by the end of it, she just -“

‘Ian -“

‘By the end of it, Frank hated her! By the end of it Frank couldn’t fucking stand her for more than five minutes at a time, and she drove him to drink, and she drove him to fuck off whenever she was around and she -“ Ian takes a deep breath, stuttering and shaky, and then says, in a voice quieter than Mickey’s ever heard, “I don’t want you to hate me, Mick. I wouldn’t be able to stand you hating me.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says, and abandons Ian’s hand entirely for favor of moving forward and wrapping his arms around Ian’s shoulders, pulling Ian’s head into his shoulder. For a second, Ian doesn’t move, limp and shaking, but then his arms come up and he’s gripping Mickey tight with fists in the back of his shirt, and there’s blood getting all over him, he’s sure, but Mickey doesn’t fucking care. “I don’t hate you, okay?” Ian shakes a little in his grip. “I could - I could never fucking hate you, Ian, you’re -“ _you’re the love of my fucking life,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to admit it, doesn’t know if it would help this situation anyway. “You’re not your mother,” he says instead, “and I’m not Frank, and I’m never going to fucking leave you. and I’m never going to fucking hate you.”

And Ian just sort of burrows farther into Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey can feel his hot breath and hot tears but he doesn’t care, just shifts forward in his awkward position and hugs Ian tighter, trying to wrap Ian up entirely in his arms because at least, there, he won’t be hurt. At least, there, Mickey can try to protect him, keep him safe, keep him from ever hurting himself again. 

They stay there for a while, wrapped up on the floor, and then Ian shifts and it breaks the spell: Mickey pulls back to Ian’s wet eyes and red nose and the weak little expression on his face that he’s not even trying to hide anymore. Mickey brushes his thumb against the side of Ian’s neck. “Want to come back to bed?” Mickey asks, and Ian nods like a little kid, reaching his arms out so Mickey can help him to his feet. Mickey’s legs are half-numb. He doesn’t care.

They stagger back down the hallway to their bedroom, Mickey doing most of the work, Ian being dragged along like a gigantic rag doll. Mickey still doesn’t care. He shuts the door behind them before depositing Ian in his side of the bed, moving around to the other side so he can clamber in himself. It’s cold, now, but less so with Ian next to him. 

For a moment, they just lay there, before Mickey reaches a tentative hand outwards, towards where Ian is laying on the other side of the bed. He rests his palm on Ian’s side, and for a second, thinks Ian isn’t going to respond - but then Ian reaches up and lays his own hand over it, and Mickey is moving forward, coming up to spoon him from behind - for once, not the one being reassured.

Ian feels small in Mickey’s grip. he’s army boy, he’s bigger and taller and stronger than Mickey, but right now there’s a fragile quality about him. Mickey doesn’t like it. He wraps his hands securely around Ian’s waist anyway, tucks his head into the back of Ian’s neck, and breathes deep. Ian shakes.

They lay there, for a while, and slowly Mickey begins to drift into sleep, grip never slackening around Ian. Mickey is on the precipice of dreamland when he hears Ian whisper, “You really should leave me, you know.”

Mickey gathers enough energy to press a sloppy kiss into the back of Ian’s neck, probably wet and unpleasant. “Never going to happen,” he murmurs, and falls asleep before he hears Ian’s reply.


End file.
